


Juxtaposition

by pinkmanite2 (Pinkmanite)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: College AU, M/M, Patrick Kane Character Study, Photo Major! NCAA! Patrick, Rookie! Jonny, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 18:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10392960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkmanite/pseuds/pinkmanite2
Summary: At some point, Patrick finds himself focusing on one subject in particular, tall and lean with some beautiful hockey hands and form so perfect it should be framed as art. He’s photogenic as hell and Patrick can’t convince himself to pull the lens away from him. Most of the guys, the big names especially, have already walked off to the locker room but this one, face just lightly flushed in the best way, dutifully rushes the net with the backup goalie, cellying like a total dork every time he puts one in.Okay, maybe it’s not just the camera that loves him. Maybe it’s the boy behind it, too.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys okay so this is the Photog AU I've been waxing about on twitter that started out as a writing warmup that I did during the process of _On your marks_ , which is why the voice is pretty similar between the two. I'm gonna be real, updates on this will be _slow as fuck_ because I'm still finishing up _look at the pieces_ and I'm basically a mess. Otherwise, hope you enjoy! You can yell at me on my fic twitter, @[pinkmanite](http://www.twitter.com/pinkmanite) or my tumblr, @[yammertime](http://yammertime.tumblr.com/)  
>   
>  **EDIT 5/27/2017: Okay so I'm marking this as complete because I'm not sure if I'll ever continue it. If I do, I'll reopen it as a WIP, but it's fine to read as standalone, I promise. Thanks fam, much love.**

Patrick Kane is gonna make it big in the NHL one day and that’s his easy explanation as to why he’s a photography major on an NCAA scholarship.

He’s here to play hockey, not to mess around and pretend he’s going to have some career in business or management, watching from the sidelines as other people live out _his_ dream, right there in front of him.

There are many a people with a lot to say about Patty Kane but there isn’t a soul who would doubt his ambition.

Nor his persistence.

So Patrick plays hockey and does lazy circles around the pond instead of sitting in gen-ed lectures he’s taking pass/fail. When he does go to class, it’s either to dick around with his teammates in the last row or to daydream about his upcoming draft day, doodling logos he might be wearing next season.

Unless it’s a photo class. That shit’s interesting as fuck.

There’s something calming about the dark room. It’s a sharp contrast to the high energy and adrenaline of the ice. Hockey is his place, where everything makes sense and the world seems to spin his way, but the dark room grounds him. It’s something about watching his work come to fruition right before him, in that very instant, that helps put himself back into perspective.

There’s always that little itch to be _doing_ and _moving_ when there are things to do and places to see but time passes best when it’s just Patrick and the red lamp, door latched shut and bins reeking with chemicals.

Patrick likes _taking_ pictures, too, of course. Especially with modern cameras so sharp, shutters so fast, and lenses so clear. He’s familiar enough with photoshop, dutifully registered for his fair share of Intro to Design classes.

The best part is his beautiful fucking camera.

As per part of his tuition, especially considering the School of Art differential, Patrick gets to rent his equipment from the department. Freshmen get the shittiest equipment, the last of the selection, but Patrick loves his dumb old excuse of a DSLR more than most things.

Not more than his beautiful custom Bauers, of course, but those aren’t really included with “most things.”

Anyhow, the shitty camera has more cracks than is probably healthy and the strap holders are long gone and missing but it still reads a mem card and takes worthy enough pictures to justify keeping it around. It’s all Patrick’s to use and practice with for the entire semester, at least until someone drops out or graduates and Pat can try to trade it up. Regardless, it’s nicer than anything Patrick’s ever touched before and that’s more than he can ask for.

His program is a little bit more lax. Of course there are subjects and skills he has to learn, assignments he must complete and turn in every Friday. But between every shot he has absolute free reign to use his camera as he’d like, the department’s half-hearted attempt to encourage students to experiment and find their voice through their lens.

So Patrick takes lots of pictures of hockey because he’s Patrick Kane and Patrick Kane described in nouns is really just “camera” and “puck.” He might not have his life in order but he sure as hell has his aesthetic down.

He is, however, still an NCAA athlete, which strikes it vaguely difficult to play sports photographer on the one thing he really cares about. Sometimes the junior varsity team will line up with his free time. They’re nice enough to let him shoot them whenever he likes, as long as he promises to be careful and unobtrusive. It’s still not nearly as much he’d like, however, when most of the JV practices are either directly before or after his own.

This leaves Patrick with a solid two weeks as a very lost freshman, trying to find an interesting enough sport that would let him practice on them at his too-big university. It proves to be more than a challenge because sure, Patrick Kane is some soon-to-be hotshot hockey star but his reach only goes so far. Any sport that’s relaxed enough to risk some photo student lurking around already has credentials dispensed to upperclassmen who have internships under their belts and newspaper jobs lined up in a few months.

All Patrick has is some very nice ice stats and a cracked camera.

It’s a week or so into the semester when Patrick’s roommate proves his worth because “oh hey, you like hockey right? The Blackhawks have this open practice thing, we should go!”

Bingo.

Andrew is a saint when he wants to be and Patrick’s grateful he got him as opposed to some slob. Andrew never even leaves empty water bottles around and that’s more than good enough to Patrick because he really doesn’t ask for much, okay? Even if Andrew prefers soccer and is a terribly annoying Leafs fan — dumb bright blue jersey and all — he’s still Canadian and that means that he at least understands hockey.

Patrick isn’t much of a Blackhawks fan. Sure, he appreciates their play and vaguely idolizes Marian Hossa like any good little right winger, but Patrick is a native Buffalo boy with so many outgrown Sabres jerseys he could probably make some drapes.

That’d probably be really cool, actually, but he’s pretty sure both his parents and Andrew would not approve of his DIY home decor.

But Patrick still needs to practice and if he can even get within two yards of the glass he’s pretty sure he can make it work. It even works out perfectly, falling on a Monday, when he doesn’t have any classes (save for his history lecture -- which he hasn’t gone to since the first day), and, miraculously, no hockey practice.

Andrew’s probably skipping a couple of classes, too, but they’re still high on independence and the whole college thing so ordering a too-expensive uber to take them to the west side still seems like it’s worth it. There’s professional hockey happening and they get to see it right up close and personal. If anything, Patrick argues that it _is_ for school, after all.

Monday during the school year means that there’s only about twenty dedicated people there, noses pressed against the glass and occasionally tapping on the glass when a player stops right there to catch his breath. Andrew is one of these people, hot chocolate in hand and eyes wide. It’s definitely a contrast to Patrick, who keeps wandering around the rink with one eye clenched shut and the other peeking through the scope.

It’s easy enough to go right into it, quickly adjusting his settings with practiced fingers that migrate to grip the lens, dutifully adjusting every few seconds to capture everything he can. Stops are beautiful to catch, ice splashing at the players’ feet, naturally dramatic. Patrick doesn’t even notice he’s grinning, nor that he’s lost Andrew on the other side of the rink, because he’s so incredibly into his craft right now.

Both the one he’s practicing and the one’s he’s watching.

At some point, Patrick finds himself focusing on one subject in particular, tall and lean with some beautiful hockey hands and form so perfect it should be framed as art. He’s photogenic as hell and Patrick can’t convince himself to pull the lens away from him. Most of the guys, the big names especially, have already walked off to the locker room but this one, face just lightly flushed in the best way, dutifully rushes the net with the backup goalie, cellying like a total dork every time he puts one in.

Okay, maybe it’s not just the camera that loves him. Maybe it’s the boy behind it, too.

His jersey wears a nineteen and the name “TOEWS” stitched across the shoulders.

The name’s familiar and Patrick knows somewhere in the back of his head that it’s pronounced with a “v” sound at the end. He’s a rookie, drafted either this past summer or the year before, Patrick can’t really remember, but he went the CHL route instead of the college route. He bets that he’s Canadian, then, and Andrew nods to confirm.

“Winnipeg guy,” Andrew says, back at Patrick’s side and watching amusedly as Patrick puts it in continuous mode. He doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s tracking Toews, alone, all around the ice.

Eventually Andrew tugs at him, complaining about rush hour and supercharges and getting back to campus before lunch closes. So Patrick gives in and starts to pack up, reluctantly sparing a final glance to the rookie on the ice. Toews is the last one on ice, hastily finishing up, sipping at his Gatorade.

Patrick makes sure to capture it. On his phone this time. 

That one's for snapchat. 


End file.
